


Just Right

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Romance, Slash, Smut, gps fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it means to be dating, depending on who you ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Right

**Title:** Just Right  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** Characters: Zach/Chris, Kristen Bell  
 **Warnings:** Mentions of het?  
 **Author's Notes:** Okay, so, this is _long_. Or at least long-winded. Subject = dating.

 

It's Zach's favorite part about being famous. Not that he's, like, _really_ famous, or anything. Let me rephrase that—it's the thing he likes most about being successful: money.

It may sound shallow, but Zach isn't going to apologize—he's worked his ass off to get where he is today. The archetypal villain on a mediocre sci-fi drama and the spiffy new doppelgänger of one of television's most iconic characters. Okay, so that doesn't sound so noble either, but whatever.

It may be just slightly silly or not respectable enough, but Zach has made peace with it. He can buy seriously comfortable, seriously awesome, seriously expensive designer shoes and walk his dog in them. He can drive _his car_ to wherever he pleases and eat whatever he pleases no matter how much it costs. So, money. Money, food, friends. It's basically wine, women, and song, except that it's Zach's far superior version.

"It used to be all about chasing the dream or whatever," Zach confides, shoveling the perfect salad into his mouth. "But now I care more about the paychecks, and yet, feel _less_ shallow. That's weird, right?"

Chris shrugs while he finishes chewing, nods and looks at him across the table. "No, I get it. Financial stability takes a load off your shoulders."

"Exactly. I mean, I have lived on _Ramen_ , dammit. I'm allowed to enjoy some ridiculously overpriced, mm, what's this salad called again?"

"The awesome salad. And I'm having the awesome panini. And we're gonna have to leave a pretty awesome tip, but, you know, these poor underpaid waitresses/aspiring actresses deserve it, right? I mean, these could be our future co-stars."

Zach scans the restaurant. It's been dubbed the fancy spot when it comes to he and Chris and lunch, and it has definitely earned the title—like, Zach has seriously considered keeping a nice suit jacket in his car just in case they end up here. It's good, though, and sometimes it's closer than their other spots.

It's become a bit of a ritual, mostly because lunch with Chris never fails to be entertaining. For example, he has this very involved way of drinking things with ice in them—like tilting his head back at what looks to be an uncomfortable angle and sipping slowly and his eyes are either closed or inexplicably shifty, as though the wait staff will at any moment berate him for looking so ridiculous. Zach just thinks it's supremely entertaining.

Chris's shifty eyes catch sight of Zach's amusement and he sputters and has to put the glass down, mouth wet and grinning, scolding eyes at odds with his expression. Chris tries really hard not to cough, and that means he ends up coughing really obviously and twitchily and Zach just laughs, just as loud and obvious in the dim, terribly serious atmosphere of elegance.

"All right, there, Captain?" Zach asks, reaching his hand out across the table to pat Chris's comfortingly.

"Fuck you!" Chris wheezes out through residual coughing/merriment.

They resume their meals of fancy deliciousness and after a while Chris finally asks:

"So, what have you been up to?"

"Dude, you know I'm boring. Just hanging out. What about you?"

Chris heaves an almighty sigh, kicks Zach's expensive shoe lightly. "Come on, I know you're penning a bestseller or something in your spare time and not _just_ 'hanging out'."

Zach laughs. "I hate to disappoint you, Chris—"

"No. No. _You_ are going to take me through your day. Step-by-step."

"Through my day."

"Uh, yeah. Step-by-step, dude."

Zach smiles, wipes his mouth of fancy sweet salad dressing before continuing: " _Well._ If you _must_ know . . ."

"Oh, I _must_."

Zach laughs. "Ummm. Seriously? Okay, well. Woke up? Put the coffee on (foreign concept, I know). Urinated."

"Thanks for sharing."

"Sharing is caring," Zach shrugs. " _God_ . . ."

Chris laughs, takes another bite of his fancy panini and sits back for story time and watches him.

" _Then_ , um. Got the paper slash let the beast outside. Fed said beast. Fed self. Read the paper. Took shower. Engaged in elaborate beauty rituals not meant for dinner conversation. Put together _this_ head-turning ensemble . . ."

"Definitely head turning," Chris mumbles.

"Like you're one to talk, Lumberjack Hipster Pine—your given name, if I'm not mistaken. _Anyway_ ," Zach says over Chris's protests, crazy excuses about What's In or comfortable or some crap, "I then drove over here and waited for you . . ."

"Like a damsel in distress," Chris supplies. "Lost without me, yes, go on."

"Sure. Then you sat down. Started complaining about how boring I am when _I_ put up with your 'sense of humor'. Ordered awesome salad . . ."

"Yeah, _okay_ , Bridget Jones. I think I get the picture." Chris pokes at his unidentified vegetabley side dish. "I swear you used to be interesting, man. We had fun on tour, if you remember. Actually, I'm not sure you _do_ remember . . ."

"It's called alcohol, Chris. Alcohol coupled with jet lag and your terrible influence on me. Heathen."

"Hey, I find that offensive, Number One. Heathens, like, believed in shit. Unless of course you meant 'hedon', in which case I salute you and would like to extend an invitation to engage in some hedonism tonight with the assistance of alcohol, since that's apparently the only way to keep you from being boring as . . . blargh." He's poking at the greenish stuff on his plate—well, more like dissecting it. " I wonder if _they_ even know what this stuff is . . ."

"Chris. Hon. You've gotta clean your plate if you wanna watch TV . . ."

"No, seriously, do you even know what this is? It smells weird, dude." And he shoves a forkful of greenish at Zach, expression earnest and typical. Zach laughs but takes an experimental whiff anyway.

"I'm sure it's fine. We're at the fancy spot, come on."

"But . . ."

"Chris. You'll be hungry later, and I'm not gonna be responsible for it. _Or_ cook for you."

"Fuck you," Chris tells him, but he tucks into the stuff anyway.

*

The second spot is the exact opposite of the first spot, but sometimes that's what really hits the spot. Or whatever.

It's also a dimly lit place, but that's less due to conscious ambience and more due to the crappy location—there are windows, but they provide only a view of the gas station next-door. Or rather the bland, painted brick wall on the side of the gas station next-door.

Their second spot has really perfectly greasy, perfectly atrocious for you food, but again, sometimes Zach wants to spend his money on overpriced crap, too. He can, after all.

Chris is late, and when he does eventually storm in it's with more drama than Zach can ever manage in real life, sunglasses shielding and breath ragged and white T-shirt blinding in the afternoon sun. Zach squints at his silhouette against the grimy glass doors reflecting all that light like crazy until Chris is close enough for Zach to see just how flustered he is. The shadow he creates makes the contours of his face look more jagged than they are, sharp Frank Miller contrasts, and when Chris rips off his sunglasses his eyes are dark green like river water in the skewed light, dark and weary and pouring out surplus anger with a sigh.

Zach just rises from the crappy bench he'd been waiting on and throws an arm around Chris, leads him back into the crappy restaurant.

It's empty but for them, lazy with the post-lunch rush lull. They probably won't get waited on for awhile yet, but that's ideal with Chris like this. Chris pillows his head in his arms on the table and sighs again, mumbles, "Sorry."

Zach touches his arm, the one catching scarce light and making the color of Chris's hair ambiguous. "Wanna talk about it?" Zach tries, ready to flinch at the response.

But apparently Chris does wanna talk, tilts his head and glances at him with this slow, labored flicker of his eyelids before he focuses, back to blue and Chris-like for now. There's far off crappy music on the loudspeakers, barely perceptible but the familiar collections of chords and collections of phrases cushion their conversation—that one hit wonder isn't going anywhere, no matter how discouraging life can be.

"I," Chris begins, licks his lips to think better. "Like. You were talking about living the dream? I don't know if I want to anymore if it means putting up with this shit . . ."

"Chris . . . we're actually below most people's radar—"

"Exactly. So why does it feel like I'm on the fucking Real World?"

Zach doesn't know, wishes he could fix it. "Jersey Shore would be a more contemporary reference, Captain, just so you know. Seriously, when was the last time you turned on your TV?"

It gets a half hidden smile out of Chris, stubborn behind his barricade of folded arms. "I'm actually kind of afraid of watching TV, anymore."

"Don't be. In fact, witnessing your utter lack of presence would probably do you some good. I'm pretty sure the only people that care about how freakishly often you get coffee are the paparazzi themselves, and they're only pretending you're notable in order to make up for their lack of, like, Britney. You know?"

Chris sits up, busies himself with unrolling the crappy paper napkin and setting up silverware. "You could've gone for Lindsay, there, but you dodged that bullet with the ease and social grace of Mary Hart herself. Props to you, man."

Zach laughs and hands Chris a menu. "Yeah, I'm a master diplomat—nobody cares about you, Chris Pine. Just. Nobody cares."

Chris laughs. Relative silence while they peruse the laminated, printed-out menu. Chris shifts around and scratches his arm and his leg brushes Zach's under the table so many times while he tries to get comfortable that Zach declares war, so they then focus their attentions on tickling and kicking and dragging one another down in their seats. Chris looks a little sunburned and his smile is creepily whiter than his shirt, the flash of his familiar canines making Zach feel fond or nostalgic or proud of cheering him up.

"Are we ready to order?" The waitress interrupts, looking just as fondly at Chris. It might have something to do with the way his biceps stretch the thin material of his shirt. Or the charming little apologetic smile he sends her way.

"Yeah," Chris says, frowns at the menu. "I'll have the, um. The um. The. Zach?"

"Yeah, he wants a number twelve," Zach says.

" _But_ I want the other ones instead of fries."

She opens her mouth to speak—

"Sweet potato fries," Zach says. "And I want a number four without mayo. Thanks." He grabs Chris's menu and hands them both to the waitress.

"Great," she says. "Anything to drink?"

Chris just shakes his head and makes ineffective gestures until Zach tells her: "Hot chocolate."

"Um," and she addresses Chris, "did you want, like, _iced_ —?"

"No, hot," Zach says. "Just water for me. Thanks."

Chris glares across the linoleum table at him, hisses, "Did you _have_ to make me look like a ten-year-old?"

Zach shrugs, lays his paper napkin primly over his lap. "Yeah. 'Cause you _are_ a ten-year-old."

Chris isn't really angry, just kicks him under the table again. "You'll pay for this. _Later_."

Zach laughs. "Now we're talkin'—what's my 'punishment' gonna be, Captain? Huh?"

Chris just smiles crazily until their drinks come. "Hey," he says, "how did you know I wanted hot chocolate, anyway?"

"Dude, you need chocolate like a menopausal woman in a yogurt commercial after a long day of getting your picture taken. I mean, it can be stressful, all that objectification and photogenicability . . ."

"Totally a real word." Chris sips his drink, closes his eyes. "Ooh, this is really good. There's like gooey icebergs of powdered chocolate floating around."

Zach raises an eyebrow. "That's a good thing?"

"Duh." He nods at the waitress, tending to some new arrivals on the opposite end of the dining room. "She's into me."

"Uh, no shit. You're just figuring this out now?"

Chris stares at him quietly for a moment. Takes a breath and deadpans, "God, I hate you."

"That's not what you said last night," Zach leers.

Chris laughs.

*

"Hey, what's up?" Zach says, shifting his phone to his shoulder and attempting to find change in his wallet for the meter.

"Hey," Kristen says, faint, in competition with the cars zooming past. "Have plans today?"

"Yeah, actually. Got a lunch date with Chris. But I'm free tonight—what did you have in mind? Ah!" Zach excavates another quarter from his small fortune in change and slots it into the meter. "Kristen? You there? It's really loud . . ."

"Wait, since when are you and Chris dating? Why wasn't I informed? _Zach!_ You can't just spring these things on me!"

Zach freezes, stops jamming his wallet into his back pocket and stands there by his car with his head angled awkwardly to cradle the phone and his eyes bulging ridiculously behind his sunglasses. "What."

"Oh my God, I _knew_ he was bi! How was he in bed? Did he let you top?"

" _Kristen!_ Dude. Not the place."

She laughs. "You got a case of the paps? That's okay, answer me in code. Two _day-um_ 's if he can—"

"We're not dating!"

". . . Huh?" And she makes it sound like Christmas was canceled. "Then why did you say—?"

"I didn't! It's a lunch date, Kristen. A lunch date, not a date date. I thought you had a boyfriend now—you've gotta get your mind out of the gutter . . ."

She's laughing at him. "I'm sorry, a 'date date'? Is that like saying you 'like like' someone?"

Zach's on the move now, nearing the restaurant and determined to end their conversation before Chris is within earshot. "I _said_ a lunch date. You know, an appointment for eating lunch at a specified time with specified company?"

"Oh, so it's _not_ just you and Chris, ergo not a date."

" _No_ , that's not what I said—ugh. You and I go out and you don't call it a date!"

Kristen is just a barrel of laughs today. Zach has to hold the phone away from his ear while it subsides.

"Yeah, okay, point taken."

"Oh, Zach, honey, you know I'm just messing with you. You and Chris aren't together together (as you would say). _That's_ pretty clear."

Zach is about to laugh along with her and hang up but her flippant attitude toward the very concept of he and Chris being—okay, fine— _together_ together gets under his skin. "Why? Why couldn't we be dating? Chris is open-minded . . ."

Kristen's laughter only doubles. "Zach, seriously, if you don't stop I'm going to rupture something over here. Well. I'll leave you two _lovebirds_ to it! Oh my God, I can't breathe, now, okay— _bye_ , Zach."

She hangs up, and Zach stares dumbly at his phone like it's offended him.

That's how Chris finds him, amused and happy today as he strolls into their not too fancy, not too crappy spot with decent lighting but Zach's lost his appetite entirely.

*

"Hey, you okay, Number One?" Chris asks, touching Zach's lifeless hand across the table. They're back at their fancy spot and Zach is staring at a spoon he's been trying to pick up for an unfathomable length of time.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm just tired—the beast woke me up way too early this morning."

Chris nods sympathetically, thumb swiping over Zach's skin so lightly it kinda tickles. "Ah. The burdens of fatherhood."

Zach smiles and shakes Chris's hand off to gather up the spoon. "Whaat?"

"Whaaaaat?" Chris always seems so pleased to have amused him.

"So," Zach says, after they've both finished the _soup du jour_ and not _merely_ the 'soup of the day', as the waiter had insisted, "you claim to be less boring than me—what did _you_ do all day?"

Chris sits back. "Oh, you know. Ran this morning, ate a banana, went to the, the place for the, uh—"

"Gas station for _The Onion_."

"Thanks. Got coffee, listened to that Senate hearing in the car, got my, uh . . . well . . ."

Zach peers at him. "Yeah, I got nothin'."

Chris waves it off. "Anyway, what have you been up to, toda—?"

"Uh uh—what were you gonna say, Chris?" Zach asks, attention caught.

Chris looks like he's about to protest, takes one look at Zach and gives it up with a sigh. "Got my teeth bleached."

"Oh, that's not that bad . . ."

"And then I went tanning." Chris grimaces.

Zach tries not to laugh, he really does. "Tanning? _Really?_ You mean you didn't turn that lovely shade of tangerine overnight?"

"Oh, fuck off. You and your eyebrows have brought manscaping to a whole new level."

"Um, yeah. And the three of us are loud and proud. We won't sit here and listen to your bigotry. Your orange, orange bigotry with the sparkling smile of a rising Hollywood starlet . . ."

Chris groans, smooshes his forehead into his palm. "I hate myself. My teeth hurt whenever I drink anything that's too hot. So then I drink something cold and they hurt because it's too cold. And then I end up spilling one or the other of them on myself and it's especially painful because my skin is also throbbing in unnecessary pain right now . . ."

"Psh. You don't hate yourself, Chris. You look fabulous!"

"No I don't."

"No, you don't. But that's okay! At least you're not as boring as me, right?"

Chris smiles. "You're not boring. We have fun." He blows over his cooling coffee mug before sipping gingerly. "I'm just annoyed that I have to do this stuff in order to live the dream or whatever."

"Thought you were over the dream, like me."

"Nah. I'm determined to bitch and moan about how things ought to be tailored to my preference for all eternity—why quit now? Anyway, why don't you fill me in on all the juicy details of your exciting life since last we spoke. I mean, Noah's practically sex on four legs . . ."

"And now we've sunken to bestiality. This is excellent." Zach kind of loves how the faint, pretentious piano music in the background is such a bad fit for their conversation.

"You'll never understand our love, Zach," Chris says, raising his voice because there's no one else here so early in the day. Zach laughs. "The _world_. Will never . . . understand . . ."

"Channeling Shatner much, Captain?"

"Oh, fuck you, Number One. Go tricorder something and get out of my _fa-ce_."

Zach shakes his head. "You know too much about Star Trek. I mean, really too much."

"Yeah? Well, that's because it's awesome. Like _me_."

"Ah, there's the ill founded bravado we like to see."

"You're damn right," Chris says.

Their food comes and for awhile the conversation consists solely of _mm_ 's and praise for fancy flavors.

"Hey, Zach?"

"Mm."

"Did you ever hear back from the—?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So do we have to go to the—?"

"Yeah."

"Ooh, is John—?"

"Yeah, he is, and Anton's coming too."

"Oh, cool. There'd better be food. _Edible_ food," Chris clarifies.

Zach pats Chris's hand. "No worries. We're gonna band together and make sure baby Pine gets fed."

Chris snorts. " _Thaaanks_." It's weird how Chris maneuvers his fork into his other hand and makes it seem less urgent that Zach disentangle their fingers. "Are you really gonna be—?"

"Yeah, but I'll probably suck."

Chris thinks about it, fingers tapping against Zach's in a silly little dance. "Yeah, probably."

Zach rolls his eyes, needs both hands to cut up his food, doesn't expect the draft of cold air that seems to go with the absence of Chris's touch. "Well, gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence," he says.

"No problem, man. I'm sure you'll win something."

Zach laughs. " _Star Trek_ is nominated for like one thing. And I don't even know what I'm presenting yet."

Chris sighs dramatically. "So difficult, living the dream and everything."

"Oh, yes. Such a burdensome existence . . ."

"Mm. What about toilsome?"

"Ooh."

"Or rigid?"

Zach snickers. "Now you're just trying to sound dirty."

"Hey, it's not like it's hard with you. Hard and rigid. Yeah, _you_ know what I'm talkin' 'bout . . ."

Zach can't not smile. "You are seriously a child, Chris."

Chris sticks out his tongue to prove his maturity, seems to remember they're at the fancy spot and makes a priceless _oh shit_ face and Zach can't stop laughing enough to keep eating.

It's okay to flirt with your friends. I mean, Zach does it all the time. With his friends.

Okay okay, so maybe just with his female friends. But whatever, it doesn't mean anything. And because Chris is equally off-limits, it really doesn't mean anything.

Chris's leg is twining around Zach's under the table and Zach can't remember whether he was trying to prove or disprove Kristen.

*

Zach has a lot of friends. And he loves his friends, and he makes time to hang out with all of them whenever possible. It just happens to be easiest to hang out with Chris at lunch whenever they're both in town and have the time to spare. And it's good to catch up, but when Zach catches up with his other friends it's usually more of a group activity, whereas he's always liked Chris best one on one.

They never talk about big events in their lives because that's for other friends, because Zach doesn't make time for Chris just for a dramatic reading of the headlines of his life. And because they don't _really_ spent a lot of time together it's nice to pretend that they already know everything about each other and are left only with small talk and companionable silence. Chris's company is enough. It's better than the news, definitely.

Unfortunately Zach is unable to determine whether that means they _are_ just good friends or if they're acting under another definition entirely. And it's been a long time since Zach's gone on a proper, agreed upon date for the purpose of dating what with work and ambition and living the dream getting in the way—long enough that he's more concerned with friendship maintenance than with finding a soulmate, at the moment, and so can't remember the protocol.

He shouldn't call Kristen and ask if she'll set him up with that one guy she keeps talking about. He shouldn't. I mean, Zach used to think she knew his type, but apparently she is also of the opinion he and Chris are is so downright implausible that she can't even take the idea seriously for a minute . . .

I mean, what makes her think he and Chris aren't dating? Why isn't what they do dating? Why isn't Zach dating Chris? Wait—

Zach stops on his way out the door to pull his phone out and dial Kristen's number.

"Hey, Kristen? Yeah, I really need to get laid."

*

Zach didn't mean that, of course. Chris likes to pretend that Zach's enthusiasm for socializing means he sleeps around, but the truth is that Zach is terribly old-fashioned when it comes to romance.

 

_"Dude, I only fuck people I'm in love with, Chris. God . . ."_

_"Ahahahahaaaa suuure. What a Romeo! Oh my God I'm so drunk right now. Does everything have a higher alcohol content in France or something?"_

_"Maybe. Probably." And Chris's arm snakes around Zach's shoulders while he blinks the world back into focus._

_"We're just a couple of wild and crazy guys!" Chris tells him, too loud and too close._

_"Oh my God, we have to go on TV tomorrow . . ."_

_"We're having fun," Chris insists, whispers._

 

"Zach? You okay?"

"Oh." Zach's been staring at his glass of merlot for too long, hasn't he? See, this is where Chris would tease him for staying up all night being boring or coddling his cat or something ridiculous, but Zach's date just looks genuinely concerned for his well-being, and the short little laugh that Zach emits probably doesn't help matters.

Tom offers an indulgent little smile and takes a sip from his own glass to buy time. So much tiptoeing—Zach is beginning to remember why he hasn't done this in so long, is already formulating a reality in which everything is Kristen's fault while Tom continues to make small talk and teaches Zach that what he and Chris talk about is either really big talk or micro-nano-milli-talk.

Tom is still blathering on about God knows what when Zach's phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at it under the table and must have smiled or something because Tom sighs, "Let me guess, you've got to take this?"

"Yeah, it's work. Sorry—I'll be right back."

Zach redials on his way out the door and Chris picks up almost instantly:

"Hey, Number One, we're meeting at the good spot today, right? I just got in from New York and I've got like three hours before I've gotta meet with Susie."

"Oh," Zach says. "Dammit. Yeah, I can't, actually. What about tomorrow?"

"Umm, back into the wild blue yonder at oh-nine-hundred hours, I'm afraid."

Zach laughs. "You fail at making colloquialisms cool. Especially when you've got to go and mix them all together like that."

"Aw, fuck you. How was any of that remotely 'colloquial', anyway?"

"Okay okay, whatever, you win. I've gotta get back to my—well, I should really be getting back, now—"

"Oho, not so fast, _Zach_ —what are you in the middle of doing that's so scandalous you dursn't speak its name?"

"You're ridiculous, and I've gotta go now. I'll see you next—"

"No _way_ are you gonna leave me hanging now. Come on, how embarrassing can it be? I already know about the Brazilian waxes, Zach, and you've seen me drunk off my ass on several occasions. Seriously. Come on."

"Chris, I've gotta—"

"What, are you on a date or something?"

Zach coughs, glances around at the fake plants in the foyer. 

"Zach?"

"I've gotta—"

"Wait, are you seriously on a date?"

"Well . . ."

"You aren't _seriously_ on a date. Like, a _date_ date?"

"Ha! Kristen made fun of me when I said that, but it's totally legit, right?"

"So, basically, you're standing me up in order to go on a _serious_ date. Is that basically what's going on right now?"

Chris is joking, like always—it's just coming out more deadpan than usual over the phone. "Basically. Now if you'll _excuse_ me, Captain . . ."

"Yeah, next time," Chris says quickly, hangs up.

*

"He was _boring_ ," Zach whines into his phone, tugs Noah's leash gently to convince him the mysterious mystery smells coming from the neighbor's garbage can aren't worth his time.

"So what?" Kristen says, flipping pages on her end. "He was _cute_. I thought you wanted to get laid. I thought those were your exact instructions, _Zachary_."

Zach grimaces. "Sorry, _mom_."

"Anyway, _you're_ boring, so I don't see what the problem is. Two boring attractive people ought to find love sweet love. You'd _think_ so, anyway . . ."

" _Chris_ doesn't think I'm boring. Well, except when he does."

Kristen laughs. "Okay, but that doesn't count since you're not dating him."

"Yeah, but still."

Kristen flips some more pages, and it's abruptly louder than her voice had been. "Have you been keeping tabs on this late night shit? I'm afraid I'll have to go on someone's show and say the wrong thing or something. I mean, I'm not up to date on this stuff . . ."

" _Why_ is it so hard to believe that Chris and I could be together?"

Kristen laughs. "Oh, Zach—you're hilarious. But my publicist just pulled up so I've really gotta run now. See ya."

"Yeah, bye."

*

Chris gets to the crappy spot before Zach does, is already waiting for him in a darkened booth. He smiles as Zach approaches. "A franc for your thoughts," he says, batting his eyelashes for good measure.

Zach tries not to laugh, slides into the booth across from him and takes out an imaginary cigarette. Chris reaches over to give it an imaginary light. "In America they'd bring only a penny, and, huh, I guess that's about all they're worth . . ."

"Well," Chris says, and it's admirable that he can pull this off without resorting to a ridiculous falsetto. Kind of weird that his deep tone of voice can channel Ilsa with ease. "I'm willing to be overcharged. Tell me."

"Well, I was wondering . . . "

Chris's hand sneaks over Zach's and Zach stops gazing broodily into the distance, faces him. "Yes?"

"Why I'm so lucky," Zach says. "Why I should find you waiting for me to come along."

"Why there's no other man in my life?"

Zach flicks some imaginary ashes away. "Uh-huh."

"That's easy," Chris says, looking off to the side. "There was. And—"

"He's dead, right?"

"Hey, you fucked it up! Fucker!"

"Here's lookin' at you, kid," Zach says seriously, but Chris kicks him. " _Ow!_ That one hurt, man. So _violent_ . . ."

Chris laughs. 

Zach grins, reaches over to grab a menu.

"Um, aren't you gonna put that out?" Chris asks, shaking his head before snatching up Zach's imaginary cigarette and stubbing it in an imaginary ashtray before he pulls out a menu too.

Zach just laughs. "Well, we'll always have Paris. And by that I mean the French people are alone in their appreciation of your enthusiasm for mime."

"Oh, shut up. We're a dynamic miming duo and you know it."

"Nah, I think we just watch too many old movies."

"Impossible," Chris says dismissively. "Hey, do I like the onion rings here?"

Zach rolls his eyes. "No, they're 'too oniony', remember?"

"Oh yeah . . ."

Zach laughs and nudges Chris's shoe stealthily with his until he retaliates.

It really has been awhile, and Zach's off to New York next weekend, but talking about it wouldn't change anything. Chris knows Zach won't be around, so they're having lunch on a Wednesday at the crappy spot and that's just what happens, and they don't need to talk about it. That would just be wasting time.

*

Kristen has been on Zach's case about getting together for ages, so Zach wakes up, gets the mail and puts down a heap of dry food for an aggressively purring, aggressively shedding Harold, gets the worst of the cat hair off with a lint brush before hopping in the car and politely correcting the GPS:

"I said _Kristen_."

 **En. Route. To. Chris. Navigating. Route.** the GPS guy says, realizes Zach's already missed the turn and continues in a curiously vexed tone of voice for a machine: **Re _calculating_ . . .**

"No! All I— _Kris-ten_."

 _Calling Chris_ , the Bluetooth phone lady says, and it's ringing before Zach can figure out how to cancel it.

"Uggggghhhhh."

"I'll raise you that ugh and see you a territorial grunt, caveman," Chris says. "Hey, do you have enough time to go to the good spot today?"

"Oh my God, I _hate_ technology."

"No you don't—technology hates you."

"Somehow I don't find that at all comforting, Chris."

Chris laughs. "So, can you be there by—?"

"I've, uh. I've actually gotta. That is, I'm on my way to—"

"Not another _date_ ," Chris groans.

" _No!_ Ha. No, it's just a lunch date. Thing."

". . . Oh. And this potential lunch date you're headed to?"

"Yeah."

"It's more important than any potential lunch date with me?"

"Yeah. Wait. That's not what I meant. I just. Raincheck?"

Chris sighs. "You're no fun."

 _Call ended_ , the phone lady says.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that. Bitch . . ."

**Rerouting. To. Abercrombie and Fitch.**

"Uggggghhhh."

**Rerouting. To. UGG Australia.**

*

Kristen makes a face. "I don't even think there _is_ an Ugg store around here. And even if there was, why would you wanna go?"

"I mean, they're warm, right? Isn't that the whole point?"

Kristen just raises her eyebrows.

"Hey, I don't wear them! This is SoCal . . ."

"Don't call it that," Kristen interjects. "But, Zach, but if you ever happen to get drunk and find yourself in the company of Ugg boots, promise me there'll be pictures."

"Yeah yeah yeah . . ."

Kristen puts down her magazine. Zach considers lecturing her on the rudeness of reading in the presence of a guest but figures he ought to count his blessings since she isn't texting or tweeting or something equally dreadful. She pats the sofa next to her. "Come on, we have some catching up to do. So . . . how was your date with _Tom?_ "

Zach rolls his eyes and sits down. "I already told you. He was boring."

" _But?_ " 

"But cute," Zach relents. "Boring, but cute. Can we talk about something other than my nonexistent love life? For example, don't you have a ring to show me or something? I thought you womenfolk liked to thrust them in people's faces and demand ooh-ing and ahh-ing . . . ?"

She scoffs. "I am an independent woman of the 21st century. Such shallow fare is far below _me_ , Zach."

"Mhmm. So, it's a really expensive rock, huh?"

Kristen nods vigorously. "And a fiscal gauge of how much he cares about me. Not that you'd _know_ since you've never even _met_ him . . ."

"Um, action star Zachary Quinto is busy, girl."

"I know, but Zaaach," Kristen whines, "you two have to meet. I'm dead serious, here. I mean, aren't you supposed to be _vetting_ this poser? Isn't that your duty as my _friend?_ "

"But—"

"Sh! I demand that you be more protective of me—I mean, for all you know he's just using me for my fame and fortune . . ."

"So, okay, let me see if I have this right, you want me to check him out for you?"

Kristen makes a face. "Do I want action star Zachary Quinto checking out my man? Well, now that you bring it up . . ."

"Well," Zach shrugs. "If he's into that."

Kristen punches his arm. "But enough about _me_. You have to give me the dirt on you and Tom!"

"Kristen," Zach laughs, "we only went out once, and I can't even remember what we—make that _he_ —talked about."

"Wait, I thought you said you canceled a date to be here."

"Yeah, well, Chris and I usually grab lunch around this time, and it's always spur of the moment so . . ."

Kristen laughs. "But you're not _dating_ Chris, Zach. Jeez."

"Yeah." Zach watches her tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his mouth getting so suddenly dry that he's regretting turning down her earlier drink offer. "What if I told you I was?"

She continues to laugh, big surprise, but this time Zach can see her face turning red with it and her hand thumping at the sofa like it's one in the morning when they're drunk enough that SNL's become hi _lar_ ious.

"Why is that so unbelievable? What if we were dating?"

Kristen shakes her head. "But you're not . . ."

"Yeah. But what if we were? Hey, shut up, seriously, what if we really were?"

"Zach," Kristen tries, sputters into laughter. "Zach." But she can't keep it together.

"You know what, _you_ are the one who put this idea in my head in the first place, so the least you could do is take it seriously. For once."

Kristen's laughter begins to subside. She holds up her hands in surrender. "Zach, honey, I did no such thing. I'm sorry your mind has a tendency to run away with itself, but—"

"No, but, I mean, like . . . like, do you think we're fake or something? I mean, you do know that I _am_ friends with Chris? We _do_ hang out. Why is it so hard to make the leap from that to . . . _you_ know."

"Um, Zach, I don't know how to break this to you, but," and she drops to a whisper, "Chris is straight."

"Yes, I am keenly aware of that, thanks. But how do you know for sure that he hasn't ever—?"

"Oh, I'm _pret_ -ty sure."

"Yeah, but how do you _know?_ "

Kristen sighs, throws her hands up. "We slept together once. There. Happy? And you can _not_ tell him I told you, Zach. I mean it."

"But. But you're. But _Chris_ —"

"God, Zach. It's not a big deal—it was just one time and we were both completely _hammered_."

"But, no. Wait. _Wait_ ," Zach laughs. "You don't understand. Chris doesn't do one night stands."

"Yeah, and 'neither do I', but it still happened. And it's not as sleezy as you make it sound, Zach. He made me breakfast! In fact it was probably the most gentlemanly one night stand of my life . . ."

"No. You're wrong again, like, Chris _sucks_ at making food. He can't even make coffee on his own. He used to drag me out of bed like before sunrise for breakfast at this crappy diner we always—just. Are you sure it was him?"

Kristen laughs. "Pretty sure, yeah. Look, Zach, he was _extremely_ adamant that I never tell you. I cannot stress this enough. There was like pinky swearing and I'm pretty sure he made me cross my heart and hope to die at one point. He's a ten year old, Zach, seriously."

"He . . ." Zach still can't wrap his brain around it. He and Chris never talk about who they're dating or their personal definitions of monogamy or whose friends they're having casual sex with or anything, so naturally that means Chris doesn't have one night stands with every random girl he's seen with or has ever referred to as a 'friend'. Every joke Chris makes about being up all night has never _really_ had anything to do with sex. And, more importantly, Zach has not been abstaining like a monk practically since they'd _met_ while Chris had been . . . well, _active_. And just because Chris hadn't told him about it didn't mean it was a secret . . .

"Zach? Hey, you're not really pissed are you?" Kristen's getting upset now, and sad Kristen always makes Zach have to throw an arm around her shoulders and tell her everything's okay, so he does it. "You were never supposed to find out about this . . ."

"Yeah. No. I mean, Chris really is a ten year old."

*

Zach is fending off a case of existential crisis, petting Harold and chillin' in front of the TV and ignoring his phone.

It's not that he doesn't _want_ to talk to Chris—it's just that he knows he'll blurt out something unfair about Kristen or Chris's personal life in general and it'd be incoherent and not make any sense to either of them, so why bother? They don't _need_ to talk about the big things; Chris's company is enough. And anyway, none of this matters because Chris is straight.

So Zach turns off his phone and spends the next few days in the throes of a debaucherous Real Housewives marathon, eating up the last of everything in his fridge and jumping around excitedly at every catty revelation until Noah thinks something awesome is going down and starts barking and then Zach inevitably ends up dancing with him and the middle of his living room and squealing things like _oh no she di-n't, boy!_ while Harold looks on disapprovingly. So yeah, it's pretty bad.

Countless seasons later Zach is so drained from secondhand drama that he can't figure out what the doorbell is or where it's coming from. Luckily he has Noah to guide him to the front door where his agent awaits, tapping her foot impatiently and probably just to draw attention to her shiny, stylish stilettos. _Women._ Zach _never_ draws attention to his outfits—they do that all by themselves.

"Zach! Finally! I have been trying to get you all da—oh dear. Are you ill?"

Zach blinks. "Huh? Oh. No, not really. I mean, no, I don't have the swine flu or anything. No worries. What's up?"

She'd left him a voicemail with some confirmation number for something Zach had barely understood, but what it _meant_ was Zach had to listen to his messages. He'd be annoyed if Chris had left him a bitchy voicemail, but he'd probably be just as annoyed if Chris hadn't even called once . . .

Harold glares at Zach for the loud welcome noise his phone makes when he turns it on, turns his back on him to curl up more snugly on the sofa and proceeds to nap moodily. Zach holds his phone up to his ear.

TWELVE UNHEARD MESSAGES.

BEEP.

_Hey. I'm in L.A. for another six hours and I'm not checking a bag so we can meet at the good spot if you call me back before ten._

BEEP.

_I know you're already up. I know your cat is listening to this and I know you're ignoring his pleas on my behalf and writing them off as 'Harold's just hungry' or something, but we know the truth! Harold and I, we will not be silenced!_

BEEP.

_On the plane now and about to get yelled at. We are going to the good spot before the next Ice Age if it kills us. And yes, that is a threat!_

BEEP.

_Hey. You never called me back, asshole. Come on, who else is gonna entertain me at this cold as fuck subway station? My iPod died of hypothermia, goddammit! Call me._

BEEP.

_Hey, traveling put me in a bad mood, so don't take this personally, but why the fuck haven't you been returning my calls? I'm not nearly as boring as you are, you know. Call me! Come on, you're freaking me out._

BEEP.

_Okay, seriously, did I do something to piss you off?_

BEEP.

_Heeeey, Number One. Long time no chat, and I'm pretty sure you're either ignoring me or you lost your phone, and since you're a freak who never does stupid irresponsible shit like that (barring the influence of alcohol), I'm gonna assume that you got wasted with your date or whatever and threw your dumbass gold plated or what the fuck ever phone dramatically off a bridge to demonstrate your sexual frustration because you're all gentlemanly or whatever, and yeah, that didn't quite work as well as I thought it was gonna in my head, but still I'm pretty sure you don't hate me. Anyway, I'm kinda wasted myself, so feel free to call me in the next couple of hours because I won't remember it probably, so maybe that's more appealing to—_

BEEP.

_Ahahahahahahaha, oh my God, I think I went over the limit. The lady yelled at me. Oh well. Call me. I miss hearing your voice, asshole._

BEEP.

_Okay. I think I may have left you a drunken voicemail or two. Please pay them no mind._

BEEP.

_I'm gonna be hungry whenever we land so please just meet me at the good spot. I'm going there anyway._

BEEP.

_Look, I don't know what the fuck it is with you but this isn't cool. You can't just cut me out of your life without warning or, more importantly, without an explanation. You're really pissing me off because I don't know what the fuck I did, Zach. So—ha—not like you're gonna listen, but it would be really nice of you to call me the fuck back, dude. This isn't cool at all, so. Please. Fucker._

BEEP.

_Hello, Zach, this is Joyce. The confirmation number is Q9C20GHN. See you on Monday._

END OF NEW MESSAGES. TO CHECK ERASED MESSAGES, PRESS—

Zach just hangs up without writing down the number.

*

"Zach?"

"Chris! Oh my God, thank God you picked up, look, my phone got all screwed up and. . ." Zach curses the way his voice bends up in pitch. Dammit, wasn't he supposed to be an actor? "So, I—"

"It's all good," Chris says, voice just as elevated, so at least Zach isn't the only one lying his ass off. "Hey, do you wanna go out tonight?"

"Um." _Tonight?_ Tonight isn't the same as today, and that's crossing a line somewhere in Zach's subconscious. "Where?" he says.

Chris laughs, and the sound of it shouldn't be so devastatingly relieving. "The good spot, where else?"

"Yeah, okay. But—"

"I'll pick you up at eight," Chris says, hangs up.

*

The thing about the good spot is that it's equidistant from Silver Lake and the airport. The room isn't dimmed for atmosphere, so the lighting is actually good enough that they can, like, see each another. The food isn't utter crap or utterly pretentious. Not too much of anything and pretty boring, actually.

Chris doesn't mention his inability to reach Zach and Zach doesn't ask any pointed questions about Chris's dating habits. Instead they rifle through the same old in-jokes and standby digs at one another for being boring or Hollywood or some combination of the two. They reminisce back to filming and touring and laugh about the things John has talked them into and at one point Chris takes Zach's hand in both of his dramatically, laughing so hard it's gone silent, and tells him they'll always have Paris.

The food isn't too hot or too cold, which Zach comments on—Chris says _Nope, it's just right_ , and then Zach calls him Goldilocks at every available opportunity for the remainder of the evening. Chris retaliates with a kick under the table every single time.

The lighting at the good spot isn't too dark _or_ too bright (it's just right, in fact), and it's a combination of this and the reality of nightfall beyond the windows that seems to paint Chris in a different light. It occurs to Zach that they haven't hung out without the sun as their witness apart from premieres and awards shows and events involving other people.

After dinner Chris drives Zach home, and that's different too because they always meet _at_ places and never go _to_ places.

Chris parks his car in Zach's driveway and practically falls over himself to run over to the passenger side and open Zach's door for him, insists upon walking him to the door because he is a _gentleman_ , thank you very much.

"Well, thanks for the ride," Zach is saying, rummaging for his keys and not giving the shadow that falls over him a second thought. "I'll see you—"

When Zach finally does glance up it's to Chris's face closing in on him, and he thinks he can catch Chris's brilliantly white smile out of the corner of his eye before he kisses Zach firmly against his front door.

Zach is too gobsmacked to respond, feels his mouth go slack under the heat of Chris's and closes his eyes and wants to pull away if only to tell Chris he's just thought of an awesome word like 'gobsmacked' with Chris as his inspiration, but the soft soft pressure of those lips is both surprising and expected and Zach just needs some more time to analyze them properly, he just . . . Chris's tongue darts out and Zach has to break the kiss.

Chris looks down, eyes and expression hidden by thick, choppy lashes that remind Zach of a doll or a stylized Disney character, not that he'd ever say so aloud and face Chris's wrath . . . "What?" Chris says to his feet, more of an exhale than a question.

"I just. I didn't mean we should stop, just—dammit." Chris is looking at him now, and Zach can't think anything other than _God. Beautiful. God._ "Pa-pa—"

"Paparazzi?" Chris supplies, and it's like the world is working backwards now but Zach doesn't care because Chris's mouth quirks and the uniqueness of his every feature or tone of voice or careless thought is suddenly _vital_ , something that Zach _needs_ in some way, however he can get it—

Chris seems to understand what Zach is getting at, takes the keys from him and unlocks Zach's front door and leads him inside. Zach tries to kiss him as soon as the door snicks shut, tries to keep this strange backwards reality from rethinking itself or disappearing without warning but Chris presses a finger to his lips.

"Zach," Chris says, scratchy-voiced, "you didn't know we were dating, did you?"

Zach shakes his head, tries to kiss him again—

" _Hold on_ ," Chris says. His hands tangle with Zach's more thoroughly than they ever do at lunch and Zach focuses on every smooth surface, every patch of dry skin and every hint of dampness, the coarse little hairs on the backs of his fingers and the flex of his tendons. "What exactly did you think we'd been doing?"

Zach laughs, feels so thoroughly idiotic that he's pretty sure this is all a dream. "I'm pretty sure this is all a dream," he says.

"Good thing we're living the dream, then." And Chris starts walking backwards, drags Zach with him. "Come on."

"So . . . no frantic passion against the nearest available wall?"

"I like to think we're more mature than that, Zach."

"Yeah? Well, _I_ like to think we're not boring."

Chris laughs. "We _are_ boring. But we have fun. And that's what I love."

They're at the door to Zach's bedroom when Chris spins around and Zach's momentum carries him too far too close too fast and it makes them kiss. 

Chris utters something unintelligible and frees his hands from Zach's to pull him closer by his hips while heat rushes into Zach's bloodstream, bouts of dizziness that are searing and red and urgent in his dark silent hallway with Chris's lips wet because of him and Chris's erection straining against his thigh.

Zach gets his bedroom door open with a shove and Chris executes a silly little spin to keep from falling—Zach laughs and Chris laughs and it segues oddly smoothly back into kissing, Chris making low, drawn out sounds into it until they end up on the bed, unmade but not a total disaster, sheets white but dusky-looking in the darkness. Chris reaches behind him to turn on the lamp on Zach's bedside table while their tongues do battle.

Zach flinches against the sudden light, which Chris interprets as a go ahead to unbalance them and flip them horizontal and press Zach's wrists into his squeaky mattress and the pillow left at a puzzling angle from his previous night's sleep, hovers above him and radiates heat like he's electrified.

Chris smirks down at him. "I see you."

"No. You don't 'see me'. Wow. Talk about a mood killer . . ."

Chris just laughs, teeth bright, leans down and kisses Zach's neck and laughs against his moistened skin too for good measure. "You know what, Zach? You're not too much of anything. You're _just_ right," Chris tells him.

Zach laughs. "You say that now, Goldilocks."

"That's Captain Goldilocks to you," Chris says, gets to work unbuttoning Zach's shirt. "Don't be so down on yourself. I mean, you should really leave that to me. Um. Wait. I meant to imply that I would—"

Zach's sighs. "That was almost sexy. Almost."

"Yeah, let's just save the talking for later." And Chris is kissing down Zach's chest now. "Okay?"

"Okay . . ."

Zach writhes under that feeling of Chris's mouth and clever hands on his skin for awhile, barely even notices it when Chris sits back on his heels to rip off his own shirt and throw his belt across the room. He settles on top of Zach again for more kissing, deeper, languorous, but Zach's belt must've been digging into him because that's the next thing to go, and when Chris is leaning back down Zach arcs his head up to meet his mouth as quickly as possible, shifts under him to get comfortable and Chris moans when it creates friction, fists his hands in Zach's hair too tightly, kisses him more and more. Zach can only gasp and try to keep up with his fervor, lets his hands wander while his heart jumps and sprints unpredictably around in his chest.

Chris's heat departs again and Zach groans at the loss, peels his eyes open to see him shimmy out of his pants and _look_ at him, hold Zach's gaze as he crawls back up the bed, pulling Zach's remaining layers away and seeking his mouth out for a slow, perfect kiss before Zach can feel awkward or exposed—in fact, Zach's no longer anything but breathless and wordless and obsessed with feeling.

Chris pulls back a fraction, speaks against Zach's panting mouth: "Want you. Wanted this. God, so long, Zach."

Zach can't answer, dying of anticipation and relief simultaneously, can't answer any of it so he just starts kissing Chris's pouting wet lips, urges his mouth open softly and it feels like everything because Zach hasn't done this in so long, yeah, that's clearly the, the . . .

Chris retreats again, and every time they aren't thoroughly entangled Zach has a mild panic attack, but Chris returns with a condom from Zach's bedside table that claims to be self-lubricating, reads all about it in the familiar rosy light from Zach's lamp that Zach reads political thrillers by before he goes to bed and Zach realizes all of a sudden that he _loves_ Chris in the light from that particular lamp.

Chris is talking to him.

"What?" Zach says, blinking at Chris's flushed face and the way the sheen of sweat over it brings out every tiny imperfection—blackheads and scars and patches of ruddy skin and one eye looking bigger than the other, entirely Chris and, God, Zach _loves_ that . . .

"How do you wanna . . . ?"

"Oh. Oh, I mean, whatever you—"

"No. What do you _want_ , Zach?"

"Uh." Chris battles with the messy covers until he's lying next to him again, kisses his shoulder, chest rising and falling with his laborious breathing. Zach watches for awhile and still can't figure out what Chris is asking him, anyway, tilts Chris's head up and Chris just smiles. "Want _you_."

Chris kisses Zach's mouth and inhales sharply, doesn't seem to require further convincing. He stretches his arm out to locate the hand lotion by the bed that Zach uses for his dry skin and _not anything else_. Like, really. Except for sometimes.

Chris coats both his hands in the stuff, wraps one around Zach's cock and it feels big perfect firm slick warm pleasure _moving yes yes yes_ , slips stray fingers into Zach in the meantime and Zach has been devoid of sensation for his entire life, apparently, because now he can't get enough—cranes his neck to capture Chris's mouth for a wonderfully wet and uncoordinated kiss.

Chris adds another finger and Zach's eyes want to roll back. So much so fast. He gropes around for Chris's neglected cock and finds it full and leaking so he spreads the moisture around with his thumb, gets Chris to curse against Zach's neck and pump Zach's cock faster. When Chris introduces a third finger Zach's head falls back on a groan and he presses down into it to relieve the pressure and _God_ he fucking _needs_ Chris inside him _immediately_ . . .

Chris is watching Zach's face crease and relax, drinks up Zach's moans with his mouth nudging ineffectively against Zach's, panting Zach's name, voice so low and so ragged.

Chris rolls the condom on somewhere in the dizziness and twists Zach's leg up and over his hip, sinks into him with a drawn out groan that Zach answers, leg tightening around Chris's waist and speeding up the process until Chris is deep inside him and hyperventilating against Zach's neck in his struggle not to move.

Zach can't distinguish sensations anymore beyond the desire for more of them so he rocks his hips. Chris's head snaps up, eyes scrunched closed and lips parted on pleasure before he thrusts into Zach, _so deep_ , and the force of it makes both of their eyes fly open. God. Beautiful.

Chris thrusts slowly, shaking with the effort, always going _almost_ deep enough and making Zach crazy with _almost_ . . . 

"God, just, _more_ ," Zach grits out, trying to move in tandem with him.

And apparently that's all it takes—Chris's pace grows gradually faster, harder, everything, his hands addicted to Zach's hair and his cock hot and filling and Chris. Just Chris. Chris who tenses and strains against him and comes with Zach's name on his lips, moves through the aftershocks and strokes Zach's cock until he follows breathlessly and spills between them.

*

"So," Chris says.

"So."

"I've wanted that for a really long time."

"Could've said something," Zach shrugs.

Chris shakes his head, half against Zach's pillow and half on the mattress. "No, I wanted to do it right."

"Dating?"

"Yeah."

"Um. _Jeez_ . . ."

"I know," Chris sighs, twists around so he's curled up against Zach's side. "You're not pissed, are you?" he asks sleepily.

"I . . ." Chris's hair smells so good—not too rich but not too ordinary. "Chris. You're just right, too."

*


End file.
